


(Don't) Write to Me

by rdirf



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Countries Using Human Names, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Love/Hate, M/M, Soulmates, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10105010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rdirf/pseuds/rdirf
Summary: Whatever your soulmate writes on his or her forearm is displayed on yours. America and Russia have no clue that they are soulmates. At meetings they are at each other's throats, yet at home they happily exchange messages.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [(Не) Пиши мне](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/270986) by R_just_R. 



Soulmate. A beautiful word, isn’t it? And the beauty is not just in its gentle, somewhat dreamy sound, but in the meaning itself. A person who is destined for you, your other half to make you complete, your best friend and lover all at once. People are looking for each other every second, striving to meet that most special person, perfect for them, as soon as possible. Lady Fate is benevolent enough to help those searching – she gives them an opportunity to get in contact with their destined one after they turn sixteen years old. Teens all over the world are waiting, armed with pens, counting minutes to the moment when they finally can write the sacramental words “Hi, I’m your soulmate” on their wrist. Then they breathlessly wait some more. When an answer appears on the skin, their smiles are something to see – so full of awe, warm and loving.

Countries, however, don’t allow themselves to get tangled in all this mess. They don’t acknowledge the existence of soulmates, fate or any such kind of happiness. For centuries there has been an unspoken, strictly observed taboo against countries seeking company of their soulmates. It is observed not for fear of punishment – not at all – but because countries wouldn’t act to their own detriment.

No one knows for sure who made them realize for the first time that they could only lead a hauntingly lonely life. Apparently it was France, who had discovered that his soulmate was an ordinary human girl with a short lifespan. After her death Francis became desolate and weak, stopped caring about his responsibilities and lost interest in international politics. All countries learned a lesson from this glaring example. If your soulmate might be human, it’s better to avoid the risk and resist the temptation to write something on your forearm.

Of course, sometimes curiosity got the better of a nation. Russia, for instance, starting from the sixteenth century wrote messages to his would-be soulmate, but to no avail. With every message left unanswered, Russia grew more and more disappointed. He looked at all those happy people around and envy overwhelmed him, flowing out in the form of rude and sarcastic words. Nothing good could come of it, so in the nineteenth century Russia decided to stop vain attempts to find his possibly long-dead soulmate and focused on his country’s development. The very day that the decision was taken he wrapped a piece of cloth around his forearm and erased all thoughts about “twin flames” and whatnot from his mind for a long time. Russia was to go through many hardships: revolutions, wars, perestroika… Over the years he would gain experience, wisdom and power, would age a life or even two and in the end dare to remove the cloth as he no longer considered soulmates a forbidden fruit. Rather, he now regarded the whole concept dispassionately and with a touch of healthy scepticism. 

America was another nation that broke the taboo – out of childish curiosity. Alfred, having freed himself from colonial rule and growing more powerful by the day, remained a naïve boy. In the nineteenth century he just turned sixteen and, despite England’s warnings drilled into him since childhood, carefully wrote “hello” on his wrist with a quill pen. Alfred couldn’t sleep that night, every so often looking at the spot where his writing had already disappeared but no response showed. Alfred tried again and again, ignoring disapproving gazes of Mexico, Canada and European countries that noticed traces of ink on his skin. He scratched his forearm with the pen’s sharp end, rubbed it until it turned red and broke out in rashes, but all in vain. The world was changing quickly, Alfred was changing too. From the simple dream of finding his soulmate he moved to the goal of becoming a superpower. Everything else paled into insignificance. A casually worn suit got replaced by a bomber jacket, instead of smiling shyly he flashed cocky grins, the glasses glinting on his nose were set in a brand new frame, and his forearm was covered by a black band which Alfred would remove only after the end of the Cold War.

Both Russia and America accepted their lonely existence as nations and found happiness in other things. Things like rivalry.

***

  
Ivan was sitting in a conference room, slowly and tiredly putting his papers away into a black leather folder. The room had emptied quite swiftly: China’s representatives had hurried to catch a plane and Russians most likely had gone home. It was already dark outside, and a big round moon was hanging in the sky like a reminder that another day had passed.

“Um, excuse me, are you Ivan Braginsky?” an assistant girl ran up to him from behind, heels clicking on the wooden floor. She smiled awkwardly, noticing his sleepy expression, and smoothed her skirt down nervously. “I was asked to tell you that a parliament session is scheduled for tomorrow at 3:00 p.m. There will be a hearing on amendments to the law concerning the production and circulation of alcohol and alcohol-containing products."

Cursing silently, Ivan rolled his eyes. Why would MPs threaten this of all things? What, if their wives forbade them to drink then they had to make everybody else’s lives miserable too? Ivan shook his head, took the pen that the girl had been holding in her delicate hand, and, seeing no sheet of paper left on the table, wrote down the info on his wrist.

***

  
Alfred rolled over onto his side and stretched, exposing his face to the warm rays of the spring sun. He yawned deeply and reached for his phone to check it for new messages, but stopped short upon seeing blue figures appearing one after another on his wrist. Alfred bolted upright, struggling out of the blanket, and rushed to the bathroom to splash his face with cold water. Once fully awake, he looked cautiously at the writing which was real after all and not something he had dreamed up. “15:00 с. в К.” it said. Alfred gulped, tracing the clumsy symbols with his fingertips, and dashed back to his room to grab a pen.

Yes, America had promised himself that he would stop trying, but now he knew his soulmate was alive and could be contacted. The temptation was just too strong. It might not be the right thing to do, but it was bound to be interesting.


	2. Ilya and John

Russia entered his flat, flicking on the light switch with his elbow, threw the briefcase onto the shoe shelf, shrugged out of his windcheater and walked into the living room. There he collapsed on the sofa with a sense of relief, closing his eyes contentedly and breathing in the welcoming smell of pancakes that lingered from the morning. Ivan had no desire to do anything, drained of all energy. He barely summoned enough strength to reach for his personal organizer on the coffee table to transfer the information about the following day’s meeting to it. Russia opened the organizer at the right page, looked through the plans for the week, pursing his lips (forums, negotiations, conferences and no days off), and then shifted his gaze to his wrist. 

What he saw there made him choke on air. Under Ivan’s own writing half-faded letters were visible. “Hey!” they cheerfully greeted him. Russia pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed. The day was too tough even without this occurrence. This problem, to be more precise.

It shouldn’t be a problem though. Ignore the person and they will leave you alone. But Ivan wouldn’t be Ivan if he didn’t let a grand battle of ideas unfold in his head, all the pros and cons warring to death. On the one hand, it was obvious that he mustn’t get mixed up with a human, because it would lead to no good. Ivan knew about the painful experience of France and a few other nations and, naturally, didn’t want to go down that road. But then his pride stirred, whispering to him that he was surely stronger than the likes of France, that he would be able to deal with it. Not to be outdone, youthful curiosity, supposedly vanquished after the revolution, practically rose from the ashes and purred seductively. One after another dangerous thoughts formed in Russia’s mind: that it was perfectly normal to communicate with your soulmate, that there was nothing perilous in it and nothing to frown upon. Ivan had every right to chat a bit with his other half. But the decisive factor was that he had been feeling lonely of late. Ukraine outright ignored him, Belarus was preoccupied with economic matters, China had a busy schedule which prevented Ivan from talking to him outside formal occasions, and France let the spring affect him like a tomcat, so at the moment there were only girls on his mind. What Ivan wanted was a simple friendly conversation, open and light.

Giving in to his desires, Russia finally wrote an answer, marking each letter slowly because the pen refused to write properly on the skin, as if trying to stop its owner from making this mistake. 

“Hello, it’s nice to meet you,” Russia replied politely, and waited. His drowsiness vanished without trace.

***

  
America had been on the verge of abandoning all hope by the time the response came. He worried that his soulmate would withdraw into silence again, or that he had a one-sided bond. It happened, albeit rarely: a person had a soulmate who, in turn, had a different soulmate. Thus some people stayed alone their whole life. Or if your soulmate died, your whole left forearm turned black so you could no longer write on it. And, of course, there were people born without a soulmate. They were called “solitaries” and usually received recompense and welfare benefits from the state for psychological damage. The absence of a soulmate was even deemed to be a disorder in some countries because it could affect the human psyche, and the solitaries were obliged to have medical check-ups once every month or two.

Luckily, Alfred didn’t belong to any of these categories. Letters appeared on his skin when he was having breakfast. Noticing them, the blonde smiled and read the writing. For some reason the very awareness that he wasn’t alone, that somewhere far away his other half lived, was very reassuring and even seemed to have some magic to it. After all, America had been convinced he wouldn’t ever experience anything like that.

“Likewise,” Alfred wrote, and paused to think of a way to continue the conversation. “Maybe tell me about yourself?”

***

  
Receiving the message, Ivan stilled and stared into space for a while. The answer had to be thought over carefully, especially in regard to personal information. For starters, his real name couldn’t be mentioned: although Ivan obviously wasn’t registered anywhere as a nation, he was known as a politician and data on him was available on the internet. And searching the web was a common way for soulmates to find out more about each other. Ivan decided not to bring up his political career either. He would pretend to have a nice and quiet job.

Having collected his thoughts, he started writing.

“All right, my name is Ilya Romanov, I live in Moscow,” Russia stopped for a second, estimating his ‘human’ age. “I’m a 27-year-old school teacher of the Russian language and literature. My hobbies are playing the guitar, reading and going to the theatre. I think this is enough for now, the rest you will learn with time.”

Russia reread the last sentences with a tinge of sadness. These were his real hobbies, but he had no time whatsoever to spend on them. When was the last time he held his guitar? Ivan didn’t even remember where the poor thing was gathering dust. And the theatre? Did he spare at least one day to go watch a play in the last year? Box office clerks used to recognize him on the streets, and now… Russia didn’t remember the names of most theatres anymore. A shame, but what could he do with such a busy schedule?

***

  
Alfred, seeing the response, frowned and rolled his eyes up to heaven in silent reproach. A Russian? Really? So this was his reward for saving the planet from communism and injustice for many decades? Well, not all Russians were complete assholes like their country’s personification, right? Alfred reread the writing and smiled fleetingly. No matter what, Ilya was his soulmate.

“Il-ja,” he tried saying the name aloud, with little to no success. Alfred spoke colloquial Russian, but pronunciation was his personal hell. He tried again nonetheless, struggling to get the palatalized _l’_ right.

“Iliya.” There, that sounded better. 

“Man, what a difficult name you have!” Alfred exclaimed, then leaned back on the chair and nearly fell to the floor as a result, clutching the edge of the table barely in time. 

Meanwhile another writing showed. “What about you?”

Alfred came to his senses and introduced himself under a fictitious name, for the same reasons Ivan had done so.

“My name is John Rogers, I’m from Washington, D.C. I’m 19 and,” Alfred pondered over who he wanted to be. “I’m studying archeology. And, well, my favorite hobby is movies. Trust me, I’ve seen everything there is on IMDb!”

***

  
Russia watched as sharp, somewhat untidy letters revealed themselves one by one. They say one’s personality can be judged by the handwriting, but Ivan didn’t have such a skill. The first thing that slightly bothered him was that his soulmate was American. And a guy at that, which made for a second troubling discovery. No, Ivan wasn’t as opposed to it as a few more “tolerant” countries unjustly accused him of being, but for some reason he had believed that his soulmate would be a girl. However, reading that the boy was studying archaeology appeased him a little. He even chided himself for equating a huge nation to one particular dickhead who inexplicably managed to become the said nation’s embodiment. Russia also liked John’s hobby – the cinema was habitually compared to the theatre.

 _“Maybe,”_ Ivan thought, _“fate indeed knows best what kind of person I need as a partner.”_

“Well then, John, I hope we’ll get along,” with the faintest of smiles said Ivan and wrote the words down on the left wrist, right where his pulse beat steadily.

***

  
The two men talked for several hours, each getting to know the other better, cautiously studying the person predestined for them by mischievous fate. Hiding behind the fictitious names, Ivan and Alfred gradually opened up, took small uncertain steps toward each other. They wanted to assess whether they found each other’s company pleasant, whether their soulmate had any traits repulsive to them, any inappropriate hobbies or bizarre, unpalatable tastes. For some time they tried to argue with providence, so to speak, but, aside from their respective nationalities, couldn’t find any flaws in each other. Looking at it objectively and ignoring personal grudges, the nationality itself wasn’t a flaw either. In the end, when Ivan stated that he was going to sleep, Alfred asked why he hadn’t written to him before, being 27 already and all.

For one thing, America was curious, and he also wanted to change the topic to what was important for both of them. If they were to keep the communication going, certain limits needed to be established for safety reasons.

“Frankly, I’m not the kind of man who believes in destiny, so let’s hold off on meeting in person. Let’s begin with being pen pals, all right?” Ivan replied, bracing himself for a rebuke, because such lack of trust in fate’s choice was sometimes regarded as insulting. 

Yet that was exactly the reply that Alfred was wishing for. Indeed, he wondered at the sameness of their intentions.

“I totally agree with you!” Alfred scrawled.

Ivan read it, and his gaze softened.

“Then it’s a deal. Have a good day, John.”

“Good night, Ilya :)”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm not a native speaker of English, I would appreciate it if you pointed out mistakes and cases of weird wording that caught your eye.


	3. Distraction

The day promised to be good: it was sunny outside, the bed in the hotel room was wide and comfortable, Russia could sleep till noon if he wanted, and, most importantly, he hadn’t yet seen half of the UN member states. He didn’t want to spend even one second more than necessary surrounded by those sour, sulky faces. With all due respect to his counterparts, they annoyed the hell out of Ivan lately. They droned in his ears like oversized mosquitoes, condemned every his action and mumbled on and on about the wrongness of his policies. Russia, to be sure, gave no fucks about their “authoritative opinion”. Unfortunately, he couldn’t express it quite so openly… Although there was an exception to every rule.

But back to the good things. 

Having woken up, Ivan immediately wrote a simple “Hi” on his wrist. This was how his every day now started. He liked to talk with his soulmate. It distracted him from a great number of problems and the daily grind. The two men could write back and forth to each other all day and night long, despite having to wait very long for a response sometimes because of the time difference. But whenever the response finally came, something tightened in Ivan’s chest, and his lips curled up of their own accord. A mere week had passed, and already Ivan caught himself thinking that talking with John was unnervingly easy. They were like old friends who couldn’t meet but could keep in touch by writing messages. The topics of conversation were varied, but notably, neither of them so much as mentioned politics. As if they didn’t live in two countries hostile to each other. Ivan was all for it though, because he had more than his fair share of politics at work. 

With each passing day Russia gained trust in fate’s choice. Still, he didn’t intend to get too close to the boy lest he demand a meeting in person. If they met, this innocent connection might become dangerous, might grow into affection, and then… Russia, of course, was stronger than France, but not made of iron either.  
This time the reply came quickly:

“Good morning :)”

So John hadn’t gone to bed yet. Ivan estimated that if it was 9 a.m. in London, it was around 4 a.m. in Washington. He rolled his eyes. How childish of John – the boy wouldn’t get enough sleep.

“I’d go to sleep if I were you,” Ivan wrote somewhat clumsily, as he was still in a lying position.

“Oh, please! I don’t wanna. Don’t act like you are so much older and wiser.”

Russia smirked. If John knew just how much older than him Ivan actually was, he would hardly write something like that. In fact, he would probably chicken out and cover his forearm, never to see a word from Russia again. It was a good thing that he didn’t know.

***

“Maybe I’m even older than you!” Alfred wrote, and then added, “Psychologically speaking.”

Well, it was true! He was much older than this Ilya, so the man could stop flaunting his prudence. Although Alfred was even gratified by such thoughtfulness. It had been a long time since anybody had scolded him for staying up late. Not that he was staying up late at the moment. America was sitting in the hotel’s cafeteria, picking at his fried eggs and staring at the dull view outside. A typical British view. The tables around were empty, and he was yet to see any countries. They could all still be sleeping. Alfred would’ve lounged around himself if goddamned Arthur hadn’t decided to remind him about the planned meeting at frigging 8 a.m. What for, one might ask? America was sure that England simply liked to make his life miserable.

“He was all like, ‘countries have no time for lazing in bed’ blah blah,” America snorted softly and took a sip of the coffee, pulling a face at the taste. Nothing but tea was made well in this sorry country.

“Right, you are a Buddha deep down, John,” the answer showed. “What are you planning to do today, oh wise one?”

America smiled at the good-natured teasing. He used to think that all Russians were grumpy bastards bent on world domination, but he had changed his mind. Ilya had turned out to be kind and funny. Yes, he sometimes teased Alfred or treated him like a child, but not in a bad way. The Russian hadn’t touched the topic of politics or tried to make offensive remarks about Americans and the USA. Which was… a pleasant surprise.

Alfred put down his fork and pulled back the sleeve of his jacket to expose a clean patch of skin to write on.

“I’ll go to the university, as usual. And you?”

A few seconds later a reply appeared.

“I’m on the evening shift today, so I’m resting now”.

“I envy you :(”

“Do your best studying, practice makes perfect.”

“Did you just call me perfect?”

“I just said you’ll have to study forever. Feel the pain.”

“You pest.”

“Your psychological age has shrunk in my eyes, friend.”

Pouting playfully, Alfred took out wet wipes and wiped the ink from his forearm to be able to write anew. Out of nowhere China ran up to his table, placing his tray on it with a clang. America hastily tugged down the sleeve and crumpled the dirty wipe, then looked up at Yao with a totally agreeable and interested expression. In other words, with a totally insincere expression.

“What is it, China?” he asked, grinning.

“Last Wednesday I returned from Russia and what did I see in the media? Articles about a war over the South China Sea, aru! What kind of rubbish was that? Were you planning to fight me?”

“No way, I’m satisfied with our friendly,” America’s mouth twisted imperceptibly, “relationship.”

“I have no idea what friendliness you are talking about, aru,” muttered China, not quite addressing Alfred but loud enough for him to hear. “Just keep your insinuations to yourself. Such trash reporting is alarming my people, which in turn is affecting me.”

“I know,” America’s eyes flashed mischievously. “Sorry, I’ll try to keep the flow of such information under control, although, as you must know, it’s impossible to jail all the journalists.”

“You had better try really hard,” Yao glared at Alfred, took his tray and walked away.

Alfred exhaled tiredly, ruffling his hair. Why did some people have to sour his mood so early in the morning? All this political shit could be discussed at the meeting. So what if America hadn’t bothered to filter out a couple of rumours? It served China right! How dare he stand shoulder to shoulder with Russia and veto all the awesome plans together with him? Alfred simply taught a villain a lesson, like a true hero should do!

The blonde rolled up his sleeve to write to Ilya again, but, seeing a new writing, just smiled gently, a genuine smile this time, and nodded gratefully.

“John? Have you fallen asleep? Finally. Have nice dreams :)”

Ivan, in the meantime, got up, stretched and decided to go down to eat. The morning definitely promised a good day.

***

Russia was sitting at the tedious meeting, trying to ignore Germany’s monotonous voice – he was going on about terror threat and the need to tighten border controls. Prussia, standing next to his brother, obviously didn’t care much about the topic. Gilbert rolled his eyes, shifted from foot to foot, sighed pitifully and pulled at Ludwig’s sleeve like a small child who got tired and wanted to go home. Germany did his best to pay his brother no heed, wasting all his patience and composure on this task, and soldiered on with the speech. Finishing it, he nodded at the audience, which was not particularly interested, and went to his seat, wearily waving Gilbert away.

England stood up and cleared his throat.

“So the last issue to be discussed today is…”

“Sanctions against Russia,” sneered Ivan in unison with Arthur. Every meeting ended the same way, it was nothing new. 

England frowned, his mouth twisting in disgust, but nodded nonetheless. 

“Exactly. America?”

Alfred, who had been apathetic to the point of falling asleep, instantly perked up, all but bouncing in his seat, and laughed loudly.

“What is there to discuss over and over again?” he asked dramatically with a wide smile on his face. Japan and a few other nations smiled back awkwardly. “Everything is clear. Don’t worry, no one is going to lift the sanctions! The Hero will contain the enemy for as long as…”

“You can stop being a clown now, I’m hungry, as well as half of those present here,” Russia calmly cut the American down to size, his lip curling slightly, although he wasn’t actually planning to spark a row.

“Don’t you miss European technologies?” America challenged, narrowing his eyes.

Was he enjoying this or what? Ivan simply wanted to leave quietly, but the American jerk was obviously asking for trouble.

“Are you trying to say…”

“Russia!” interrupted him England. “Stop it.”

But of course, the impudent brat’s nanny would hurry to defend him.

“I haven’t even started anything yet, Kirkland,” Russia pointed out with an air of cold tranquillity that sent shivers down the spines of most nations in attendance. 

“Why can’t you be bothered to listen to what I have to say?!” Alfred fumed.

“Because it’s painful to listen to you,” Ivan growled, still trying to keep calm.

“And I find it painful to tolerate your presence here, but I manage somehow!”

“Oh? Then what about the Group of _Seven_?” taunted Russia.

“If nobody likes you maybe you’re the problem?” Alfred asked, his eyes narrowed behind the glasses, looking directly at Ivan with contempt. Those eyes blazed with power that America was ready to use at any moment. Ivan felt like a man standing on the edge of a volcano, and he would be intimidated if he didn’t feel the same kind of power in himself.

“As if you are universally loved yourself,” retorted Ivan, his breath visible in the air – the temperature in the room had dropped considerably, and the countries around the table hunched their shoulders. “I bet even your best friend Japan hasn’t forgiven you for the atomic bombing of his cities.”

Kiku flinched and averted his gaze.

Alfred hissed angrily and sprang to his feet. Unlike Russia, he wasn’t good at controlling his temper yet. Or, as Ivan suspected, America just liked pretending to be a victim. It made for great PR, didn’t it?

England shot up from his seat, too, but was stopped in his tracks by France calling out his name in an unexpectedly good English accent. He glanced at Francis and sat down again, pursing his lips.

In the meantime Alfred walked round the table, approached Russia and said, hatred lurking in the depths of his eyes, “I’m sure your soulmate is happy to have died without having met you.”

He knew how it would work out. To bring up soulmates in an argument was forbidden, low, utterly immoral. Exactly what he needed. Now Ivan would try to attack him and would be seen as an aggressor. Now the man’s calm face would distort into a grimace of hatred and revulsion, and his hands would clench into fists. Alfred silently counted to three in anticipation.

One.

_A muscle flexes in Ivan’s jaw, and he lunges at America._

Two.

_Other countries scramble up to stop the fight._

Three.

“Nice try, Jones, but I’m not a five-year-old,” Ivan whispers sweetly into his ear, then turns to the crowd of countries standing frozen at the table. “I’m leaving, if you don’t mind,” he nods at them all, takes his briefcase and walks out of the room.

“Damn,” mutters America under his breath and leaves too, going in the opposite direction.

England leans on the table tiredly and dissolves the meeting.

***

America flopped down on the bed and closed his eyes. The room was pitch-dark, and he didn’t want to switch on the light for some reason. He discarded his shoes, crawled under the covers fully clothed and curled in on himself. Somehow such fights left a lump in his throat, and he felt awfully cold and uneasy. He even got an urge to rinse his mouth at times. Alfred knew what terrible things he said, and he was ashamed of himself deep down, at least once in a while. But that… that Russian pissed him off, he tried to make a fool out of him in front of others at every turn, to undermine his authority which had been earned over the years through blood, sweat and tears. Alfred knew that Ivan was right in some regards – that America would be cast off as soon as he lost his power. One fatal mistake – and everyone would leave him. Even Arthur would probably abandon him, because who needs a protégé who brings disgrace on you?

Alfred threw an arm over his eyes, but the next moment jerked it back to look intently at the exposed wrist. He extended his other arm to the bedside table, turned on the night light and rummaged the drawer for a pen.

“Are you there?”

“Yes,” the reply came instantly, and Alfred felt a little better. “How was your day?” the next writing asked.

“Horrible. We have a Russian in our group. He’s such a dick. Why can’t he hold his tongue?” Alfred wrote quickly without a second thought. He just needed to get it out of his system. 

“I know the feeling. There is an American teacher of English at our school. A total pain in the ass, never knows when to shut up.”

“Right! Why not keep silent instead of butting in when someone else is speaking?”

“Indeed. But you,” letters stopped appearing for a few seconds, as if Ilya hesitated, “don’t let any idiot upset you. Go out and enjoy yourself, seeing as it’s evening where you live.”

Alfred looked out the window. He wasn’t in the mood to go out. The street seemed so uninviting and dangerous, while his dimly lit room was so warm and cosy.

“I don’t wanna. Let’s talk instead, unless you’re going to sleep, of course.”

“It’s fine, John, I’m not sleepy.”

Alfred cheered up. It was as if even the bed got more comfortable. Before answering, he took off his jacket and jeans, exposing himself to the depressing emptiness surrounding him, of which he was no longer afraid.

“Then your time is mine for tonight!”

“As you wish.”

***

Three floors above Russia was sitting on the sofa, a faint playful smile gracing his lips. There was a bottle of whisky left unopened on the table. The whole room narrowed to the patch of skin covered with writings, the whole day contracted to the morning and the evening.

Ivan turned into Ilya, Alfred – into John, and all the years of throwing barbed words and waving fists at each other, of choking on insults when coming back home didn’t exist any more. Two hurt, lonely, exhausted souls clung to the pens in an attempt to run away from themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author asked me to bid you hello. She is happy her fanfic is so well received :)
> 
> Now, a question of grave importance. Did I get the conditional right here: "he would be intimidated if he didn’t feel the same kind of power in himself", or should it be the third type?


	4. A spring holiday

America was lounging on the sofa, propping his chin on his hand, squinting contentedly at the sunrays that poured into the room through the panoramic windows. He had a day off, which meant he could stay home and do nothing. Having ordered some food, Alfred promptly turned off the phone, threw all the irritating papers into the drawer of his desk to keep them out of sight, took a case of coke stashed away for special occasions and stretched out in front of the television to watch something interesting. To put it short, he intended to have a ‘lazy day’.

Alfred started flipping channels, of which there were a few hundred, and he knew only a couple of dozens. He stopped somewhere around the 200th, seeing the beginning of a colourful anime. America checked the name, making sure he hadn’t seen it before, and fixed his gaze on the screen, intrigued. The production turned out to be sensual and fascinating. Alfred hadn’t really expected to like it, considering that the body-swap plot wasn’t new to him and there were quite a number of films dedicated to love. It went without saying that half of them were about soulmates and all those ‘red strings of fate’. And yet, something in that anime appealed to him – its innocent simplicity coupled with meaningfulness persisting throughout it like the proverbial red string going from wrist to wrist.

“Hello,” a greeting appeared on Alfred’s forearm, momentarily distracting him.

“Hi, watcha doing?” he wrote back without looking.

“Having supper at a café. And you?”

The reply came almost instantly. America didn’t want to divert his attention from the anime, but at the same time he couldn’t pass up an opportunity to talk with Ilya. It had become a necessity rather than a habit. He liked receiving those messages written in a small, neat hand, liked catching himself smiling after reading them and liked knowing that somewhere far away another person felt the same way. So he was even ready to sacrifice a good film if need be.

“I’m watching an anime. It’s amazing!”

“Anime? Really?”

“Yes, so what? It’s an animated film not unlike any cartoon, just with its own distinctive style…” Alfred immediately went on the offensive, feeling familiar with the topic. Time and again he had tried to explain to the narrow-minded that anime was art too, and should be appreciated as such. It went without saying that he had never succeeded.

“I was simply expressing surprise,” a new writing put a stop to America’s outburst. “What is it about?”

“It’s about two people who try to remember each other, although they don’t know each other’s names. And about body swapping. Also about a comet. There is so much in it…”

“Those two, are they soulmates?”

“Yes, but they don’t have the means of communication that we have. So they may never find each other.”

“Don’t you think it’s scary? Never to meet your soulmate?”

The question caught Alfred off guard. He was really surprised by this subtle shift in their conversation to a more serious tone. And the question was difficult in itself. On the one hand, America had been prepared for such a scenario since childhood. _“You are a country,”_ Artie used to say, _“a country’s soulmate is his nation.”_ But on the other hand, speaking with Ilya every day…

“Yes, it’s scary,” he wrote warily, as if afraid to be punished for these words. Then, when no reply came, he added, “But one can live with that.”

Alfred decided that this was Ilya’s way to suggest a meeting in person. They hadn’t ever brought it up, which was perfectly okay with Alfred, but if Ilya suddenly wanted to meet, his hopes had to be nipped in the bud.

“It sort of makes one feel bitter,” Ilya wrote; America’s guess turned out to be wrong.

“Hey, but you have me :)”

Alfred was bluffing. They would never really meet, so he was shamelessly deceiving Ilya, and yet… He wanted to comfort his soulmate, as well as himself. Yes, they could never see each other, but at least for now they were there for each other, at this very moment they could talk and feel each other through the bond despite the enormous distance separating them.

“I know. And I’m happy,” an unexpected answer appeared. 

Alfred smiled, then glanced at the TV screen. The protagonists were standing on some stairs and looking at each other, and… Closing credits with a beautiful song. America didn’t speak Japanese, but it must have been about love. _“Beautiful songs are always about love, even if you think differently,”_ France once said. Alfred remembered a lot of his words of wisdom, more than Arthur’s pieces of advice or the names of comic heroes. Maybe it was so because such words were weird coming from the carefree, jolly Francis, or maybe Alfred simply trusted France more because he had lived longer than England.

“The film has a happy ending, Ilya. They found each other,” America decided to share the good news.

“Really? That’s kind of naïve and unrealistic.”

“Why? Are there no happy endings in real life?”

“In real life there is only one ending, John. For all of us ;)”

“You’re way pessimistic!”

“Nope, I’m a realist. It’s just that all those Hollywood-style happy endings are… boring.”

“I see, you prefer the likes of _The Green Mile_ or _Hachi: A Dog’s Tale_ , right?”

“The only film that makes me cry is _The Irony of Fate 2_.”

Alfred narrowed his eyes, searching his memory for the name. He had seen so many films, their plots had long since got mixed up in his head, to say nothing of the names. However, America did remember his favourites and had rewatched them more than a few times. After straining his brain for several moments, he was finally able to recall what it was about.

“Aha!” he wrote with delight, “I’ve seen the first film and liked it very much!”

“Then you’d better not watch the sequel, my friend.”

“By the way, what’s your favorite film?”

Alfred bet it would be some Soviet production. After all, no matter how fiercely he hated Russia, it had to be admitted that his comedies were quite good. But Ilya’s answer stupefied him. He blinked a couple of times, refusing to believe his eyes.

“ _Casablanca_?!” Alfred marvelled. “Why?”

He honestly didn’t understand. The film was good, no question about it. Alfred appreciated it as part of superb American cinematography, yet he had been able to watch it only two times. It was too… bittersweet. The winning but tiresome combination of romance and drama, which Alfred had seen on multiple occasions and in many variations. _Casablanca_ seemed to him typical of its kind, maybe groundbreaking in its time, but the bottom line remained the same.

“It’s hard to explain,” a writing appeared. “I’m not a cinema expert, but…” Ilya was apparently a bit at a loss for words, “but it conveys such a noble message of self-sacrifice. That’s what hooked me, I think.”

Alfred’s face lit up in a wide, weird smile. It was more about the awkwardness showing through, almost tangible, than the meaning of what Ilya had said. Because Ilya wasn’t someone who got shy easily. On the contrary, he appeared to be self-controlled and sarcastic. And now… It was so unusual to see that he felt uneasy speaking about something less known to him than to the other person involved. Actually, Ilya could’ve named a different film, a Soviet thriller for instance – Alfred had fully expected such a reply – but he had chosen to be sincere, despite obviously feeling a little embarrassed about it. And, hell, America found it so cute.

“I really want to hear your voice when you’re shy like this,” Alfred wrote, surprising them both.

The room was so cosy in the gentle daylight streaming in through the net curtain. Another anime was starting on the TV with quiet opening music, slow and thick like honey, flowing cheerful at first then turning melancholic. It was warm but not stuffy, and everything had a spring feeling to it that just invited you to open up.

“What do you think my voice is like?”

Alfred instantly pictured a slight smirk with which this question had been written. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to imagine how Ilya’s voice sounded, its timbre and cadence and the way different emotions affected them.

“Soft and deep,” he wrote without looking, then thought a little more and added, “but not too low.”

“Well, you guessed quite right.”

“Intuition. What do you look like? Tell me.”

A couple of days ago Alfred hadn’t cared about it in the slightest, but now he was anxious to know everything, every little detail. All at once he felt the attraction strengthen inexplicably, as if the proverbial red string was pulled tighter than before.

“Well… I’m tall, fair-haired, broad-shouldered and with a hooked nose. This should be enough for your intuition and imagination.”

Alfred got embarrassed for some reason and blushed.

“What about you?” Ilya asked.

“I have vivid blue eyes and an athletic build.” America glanced at his not-so-athletic sides and pursed his lips. “I wear glasses. Oh, and I’m blond,” he concluded somewhat lamely, which caused him to make a face. After all, he wanted to impress his soulmate, not to achieve the opposite effect. 

But Ilya was obviously unperturbed as he continued the conversation, “I’m sure you smile a lot… and brightly.” When Alfred thought about it, he indeed smiled more often these days, especially while talking with Ilya. “I don’t know why, but I think of you as sunny.”

Sunny? The word left Alfred breathless. No one ever called him that. Except maybe for Arthur when Alfred was a small child, but he had no memories of it. His cheeks heated, and he hid his face in his palms as if Ilya could see him. A thought surfaced in his mind that in films they usually kiss after such words. Alfred patted the couch for the dropped pen and scribbled, “I would kiss you right now.” Then, like some teenager who had confessed his feelings for the first time, he burrowed his face into the cushions, both afraid so much as to glance at his forearm and impatient for an answer, a reaction of any kind.

When the answer came, it was nothing he had expected. Alfred was taken aback and wondered if Ilya was trying to play everything down.

“What did you eat?”

Hesitating for a moment, Alfred replied, “I was drinking coke.”

“And I was drinking coffee. So our first kiss would’ve tasted of coffee and Coca-Cola.”

America read it, a smile splitting his face to the point it hurt his cheeks. He snorted, wrinkled his nose and fell back on the cushions, feeling bliss running through his veins.

***

  
“You’re strange today,” John wrote, and Ivan smiled involuntarily, hiding the upturned mouth corners under the scarf.

It seemed the boy had managed to touch his heart. And it was wrong, confusing and… pleasant. Russia was in high spirits, as if he hadn’t been through a hard working day with piles of papers and meaningless hours-long talks. Conversations with John somehow gave him so much strength and the will to live, and brightened up his mood. Even when John was upset because of that Russian troublemaker, or when Ivan himself was out of sorts, it was as though they absorbed each other’s negative emotions, sent all the support and comfort they could through the ink. With each passing day it grew more and more difficult to imagine how he could’ve lived without someone to write to.

Russia noticed a stand with soft drinks and went to the counter, giving a banknote in exchange for a bright red can of Coca-Cola.

“I don’t recognize myself, either,” he wrote back frankly and, closing his eyes, took a mouthful of the drink.


	5. Airplanes

Fingers fly over the keyboard, then there is a click. Violet eyes scan the search results, trying to find something of relevance among a heap of useless forums for women and advertisements. Ivan looks through a few articles before he gives up and clicks on the first link the search engine has provided. It was a typical chat room where people answered one another’s questions. There were lots of comments, mostly by women, particularly those ‘destined’ to be lesbians, so to speak. Ivan didn’t understand why prejudice persisted in a world where the Creator himself (whoever that was – Ivan wasn’t versed in human religion) had ruled that soulmates could be of the same sex. Then again, countries had it easier, in this regard. People liked to make their short lives ever harder for themselves.

Scrolling through the answers to the question, Ivan had a good laugh. Some replies both by women and men were affirmative, yet the situation suggested otherwise.

“Is it possible not to fall in love with your soulmate? But of course!” wrote a girl with a strange unreadable username. “My soulmate and I are best friends, for instance. Well, sometimes we find ourselves having sex, but it’s that friends-with-benefits thing, you know. Totally normal.”

Ivan snorted, covering his mouth with his fist, and closed the tabs. Clearly the Internet couldn’t help him. Which wasn’t all that surprising, seeing as the question was just silly. At least for humans.

The thing was, humans had their own set of tacit rules concerning soulmates, established since time immemorial like the rules for countries, though perhaps not learned the same hard way. Firstly, people believed that Fate was always right. They never questioned her choice. And what was the point of doubting it when mistakes never happened? There were virtually no dysfunctional families or divorces, save for those with a one-sided bond who tried to build a relationship with someone else. In such cases the bond turned into a magnet-like thing: the more one strove towards the ‘wrong’ person, the stronger the unrequited love for his or her soulmate became. It was thought to be Fate’s punishment for disobeying her will. Nevertheless, the struggle of people bound by a hopeless love was perfectly understandable. Everyone wanted to be happy, everyone wanted to feel loved. Russia couldn’t really see a reason for criticism. 

The second rule was simple and was followed naturally: you fell in love with your soulmate. You couldn’t stay friends with your other half, try as you might. Sooner or later you fell in love with that person – your perfect match. Some people, having accepted the fact, plunged ahead into sex and marriage. The majority still preferred to take it slow, getting to know each other better, making sure the other person was indeed the one they would want to spend the life with. But the result was always the same – a happy ending (excluding sudden deaths and the like).

It was the second rule that frightened Ivan, because what mattered wasn’t some human rules or even Fate – people fell in love on their own, the bond didn’t coerce them, just pointed them in the right direction, so to say. And the more Russia interacted with John, the more he understood that falling in love was inevitable. A little bit longer, and it would be too late to do anything about it. He must run away, wrap his wrist up and forget anything had ever happened. But Ivan couldn’t make himself do it. John was such a warm, cheerful, funny and spirited person. He was his! Now of all times, an all but forgotten feeling of childish envy, or rather selfish longing, stirred within Ivan. Why couldn’t he talk to his soulmate if it made him happy and diverted his attention from all the crap happening in the political arena? And even with the risk of ending up like France, the desire to keep the communication going was winning out. In fact, the more Ivan doubted his resolve, the more he grew attached to his soulmate.

Russia shook his head, closed the laptop and went to the bedroom. It was already dark outside, so it was time to go to sleep. He glanced at the clock – it showed 8 p.m., which meant John was about to wake up. But Ivan frankly didn’t have any energy left. He had a tough day. In the morning he had to sort out some absurd situation involving the US Attorney General and the Russian ambassador (secret agents these days… busted so easily), then his boss kept calling and complaining that the day before Alfred had again got the media to spread rumours about his officials’ links to Russia, successfully wearing out himself and whoever else he could get hold of in his agitation. As a result, other countries also became suspicious, although Ivan could swear he had nothing to do with elections in random foreign nations and certainly didn’t give a damn about the political shitshow in the USA. Why did everyone think he was on the prowl for them? As if he didn’t have enough problems of his own! He had vented it all to Alfred’s voicemail (the fucker was still sleeping and didn’t pick up the phone), to give him some food for thought, if he was capable of any thought process, so that he stopped hounding his own and others’ governments.

To sum up, Ivan had wasted another day on that idiot who managed to give him trouble even living on the other side of the world. Now Ivan was desperate to burrow his head into the pillow and fall asleep, to wake up no sooner than England invented a spell to give his bratty relative some grey matter.

“My morning didn’t start with coffee :(” a writing appeared on Ivan’s forearm when he was about to turn off the night light.

“What’s up?” he wrote, yawning.

“That Russian bastard is ruining my mood again.”

“You know, I’m starting to hate him myself.”

John’s classmate really annoyed Ivan. He didn’t understand why John still hadn’t settled it like men. Damn, if it went on like this, he would go to where John lived himself and deal with the situation the Russian way. Wait… It was impossible, of course. What was he even thinking?

“No one likes him because he is such a prick!” 

Russia easily pictured the pout accompanying the words.

“If someone had been bothering me so much, I’d have long since put him in his place.”

“Yeah? Then what about your English teacher?”

“Don’t want to dirty my hands on someone so juvenile.”

“ _And don’t want to give him what he wants_ ,” thought Ivan. A brawl was precisely what America was looking for – to remind everyone how dangerous Russia was. But Ivan, even boiling inside, wasn’t going to give his emotions free rein. It wouldn’t be worth it.

“Let’s talk about something less aggravating.”

“Agreed.” Ivan could hardly keep his eyes open, but the urge to talk with his soulmate seemed to be stronger than even fatigue.

“You know, I’m going out of town tonight. I like stargazing and drinking cold beer in the countryside.”

“Are you allowed to buy alcohol?”

“Shut up :) Sometimes I just want to relax and forget about my studies.”

“I like stargazing too. Except that you can’t see stars in Moscow. Only the moon and flying planes.”

“Just pretend that airplanes are shooting stars. Ah! That way you can even wish on them!”

Ivan smiled. Who but an innocent child would draw such a comparison? An adult would see the darker implication in it.

“So, be ready to talk about space with me in the afternoon ;)” John wrote when no answer came to his previous suggestion.

“Sounds like you’re asking me on a date.”

“What if I am? Would you agree to it?”

Russia raised his eyebrows, taken by surprise. Since that one “kiss” John had been avoiding such topics, so what'd got into him now? Was he in love? Did he want their relationship to develop into something more? Something Ivan couldn’t afford. He pursed his lips, apologetically lowering his gaze. Russia always tried to be sensible, cautious, to listen to his mind, not his heart. He still acted impulsively too often for his own good. It had already led him to ruin, crises and existence on the verge of vanishing from this world. Therefore, now it would be better to put an end to John’s… advances.

“ _But it’s just a human_ ,” his heart rebelled, “ _he can’t harm you. And you like him!_ ” An obvious truth.

“Why am I like this, I’m not some green youth!” Russia groaned, rolling his eyes.

If only he were to forget the prison made of lies, squabbles with other countries and politics holding him back, Ivan would, of course, like to try… Because he knew it would work out. They could meet up, go for a walk, feel that bond between them physically. They would chat on and on, soaking up each other’s voices; stare at each other greedily, as if afraid they might lose sight of each other at any moment. They would go out of town and sit on a balcony, spotting planes in the sky. They would finally be able to fall asleep and wake up in the same time zone, cook a breakfast, elbowing each other in the cramped kitchen. They would kiss for the first time – in earnest, so that the veins on their wrists glowed blue, sealing the fact that two soulmates found each other in the wide world. Ivan had craved it since he was a teenager.

“Ilya? Are you asleep?” another writing showed.

Russia stood up and walked to the window. A little red light was blinking in the sky, higher and higher, starting a long, or maybe a short, journey. “ _I wish it lands safely_ ,” Ivan thought. “ _No matter where_.” He didn’t want to make wishes on falling planes. He could make his wishes come true himself. 

“I’m going to bed, John. Hear from you tomorrow. On our date.”

What he received in response was a heart, imperfect in shape but drawn with great care.


	6. Contradictions

From then on their feelings flowed on their own, out of control. Yet it wasn’t reflected in their writings. They both just got silly smiles plastered on their faces after reading each new message, the surroundings suddenly turned brighter and more colourful, the air – sweeter, and wild roses twined around their hearts. Roses without thorns. Yet both of them shied away from discussing it openly, kept silent about it like frightened birds, and tried to avoid charged topics altogether. Tension was growing. Behind the dull letters a big something loomed, reaching to the heart like a red string, gently constricting the lungs, winding around the stomach where unidentified winged creatures fluttered around, and going further down, to where it was absolutely not allowed to go.

So both men clenched their teeth and kept cutting those strings off. They didn’t need any more moments of weakness than they had already had. They needed to be sober and cautious. As a result their relationship was stuck in limbo. The bond pulled in one direction and they pulled in the opposite one, even knowing that their efforts were futile. But each of them was as stubborn as the other and refused to cross the self-imposed line. And the only thing undermining their confidence was salt accidentally put in the coffee instead of sugar.

“Another date?” Ivan joked in the course of a conversation. Only it wasn’t a joke, not really. Time after time he sought a direct, serious answer. But what answer did he want? ‘Yes’ or ‘no’? He couldn’t decide.

“Maybe ;)” John hedged, and Ivan felt more confused still. He had long since admitted that yes, he needed it desperately, and that no, this wouldn’t simply pass and be forgotten. There was no going back. Yet some vestiges of reason left in him continued to raise alarms as if there was still hope he would heed them.

Given all that, the two men would’ve probably stopped at the stage of inconsequential ‘dates’ and exchanging some embarrassing remarks from time to time, like “I’m sure scars look good on you” (it was a pity to wipe such words away), but everything changed regardless of their plans.

After all, try as you might to bully your heart into submission, it’s still going to scream at you, and thrash, and beg. And once your control slips, it’s going to spill out all its secrets, betray you like Judas, and relish it as sweet vengeance against that wretched reason of yours.

***

Ivan got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. When he was already about to turn off the lights there, he noticed that letters started appearing on his wrist. Walking back to his bed, he switched on the night light and looked at the clock. It was five in the morning. Ivan’s room faced west though, so the sunrise wasn’t anywhere to be seen yet, and the curtains were fully closed; his flat was shrouded in cool quiet darkness, disturbed only by the yellow light of the lamp. Ivan moved his eyes to his wrist and examined the writing.

“Ilya r u ther?” the letters ran askew. Frowning, Ivan took a pen and wrote back quickly:

“Are you drunk?”

His guess appeared to be right, judging by new letters crawling unsteadily across his forearm. People wrote that way when their hands trembled. Ivan shook his head – not in disapproval, of course not, but rather sympathetically. John apparently was a lightweight drinker. Russia had never had a problem with alcohol, and not because he was immune to it like many erroneously thought; he just knew when to stop. On top of that, many years of heavy drinking counted as good training.

“No mattah!” Ivan read the message that looked almost undecipherable, “ur here’s all tht matters.”

“John, prepare some Aspirin for tomorrow and go to sleep. Trust me, that’s the best course of action.”

But John didn’t seem to need anyone’s advice. He started writing faster and more comprehensibly, as if he was rapidly adapting to his drunken state.

“Where r u now i wnder? I’m in my bed. Soo tired.”

Ivan sighed wearily, but decided to answer. John had managed to climb into bed, so he was going to sink into oblivion soon enough anyway. Besides, being Russia, he couldn’t find it in himself to simply ignore a drunk person.

“I’m in bed too. I’ve almost got enough sleep even.”

“Mm, I’d like to be there with you.”

Gaping at the words, Ivan cleared his throat nervously. Not that it was very suggestive – hardly – but it certainly was something new. Ivan quickly convinced himself that he was dealing with the usual light flirtation, like the jokes about dates, and compliments, and their first imaginary ‘kiss’. Russia was about to write back when John suddenly continued:

“I’d snuggle up to you from behind. You’re taller than me, yes? I’d burrow my face into your shoulder, breathe in your scent. I bet you smell amaaazing, you’re my soulmate after all.”

Ivan frowned, confounded by the fact that his drunk soulmate wanted to discuss this further. More than that, John was apparently going to write everything that was on his mind, openly and unashamedly. Ivan noticed that the guy began another sentence, and hurriedly wrote one word straight across it, like a border: “Wait!” 

John ignored it and went on:

“There are always those soulmate couples smooching all around me. I’m jealous!  
I want it too  
hold you close, touch and stroke you  
everywhere” 

He expressed his thoughts a tad incoherently, but it didn’t really matter – Ivan still had to shake himself to regain his sanity and try another time:

“John! Go to sleep!”

“I wanna sleep with youuu,” the answer gave Ivan a distinct impression of a whine. “I want you to hug me and kiss me, it’s the common thing to do. Why can’t we? It’s unfair!”

Ivan winced. Had John worried about it all this time, keeping it to himself? So he did want to meet, but had tried not to cause Ivan any trouble? Somehow it made the Russian feel ashamed.

“You’re mine, man, I like you! I want us to be together. I want you.”

Ivan gulped and scribbled a reply:

“Please rest, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Actually, Russia hoped that in the morning they would pretend nothing had happened, and avoid this awkward conversation. They might yet be able to go back to their usual non-binding exchanges.

“Don’t you like me?” the words rang with bitterness. Ivan fumbled for words as John went on, “Don’t you want to kiss me for real, go on a real date?” His writing was inexplicably getting clearer by the minute. “Don’t you want to hear my voice? I’d like to hear yours. How it pronounces my name. Or better yet, moaning.”

Ivan cursed and turned the light off. He wasn’t going to read any more of it. John had had too much alcohol and wasn’t thinking properly. Ivan rolled onto his side, then onto the other one; tucked his arm under the pillow; listened to his own galloping heartbeat. God, who was he kidding? Russia sat up abruptly, turned the light back on and skimmed the writing curiously – it already covered his whole forearm, including the back of it, and reached the crease of his elbow here and there, yet new letters kept appearing.

“Hell yeah, I’d so like to hear your moans mixed with mine. I’d drink them straight from your lips. And I dream of touching you, I shiver whenever I imagine it.”

Ivan had no idea how drunken rambling had turned into such an eloquent description.

“I want to slide my hands down your body, stroke your abs – you’re toned, aren’t you? – then press my lips to the spot below your belly button, feel the muscles there flex in response. I want you to reach for me, draw me close to you, tell me that I’m yours. I want to be yours. Your embrace must be so soothing. And mine is warm – I’m sunny, remember? Given a chance, I’d warm you every night. We’d rumple the bed sheets, get tangled in each other, fill the room with hoarse cries of pleasure. I want it, God, I want it so, so much. I wish to belong to someone, like everyone else. No, not to someone, of course, only to you. I need you, Ilya, I could almost” the rest of the writing was crossed out, and no new letters were appearing. Ivan reread the last lines several times. It was essentially a plea. Ivan never meant to torment his soulmate like this. He had had no clue that John wanted to meet him, and now the guy claimed he dreamed of it, liked ‘Ilya’ and wished to be his. It was strange, unexpected, and… heartwarming.

Russia found that John’s confessions brought him satisfaction. Someone appreciated and wanted him without any reservations. It was no less than flattering. And yet he gripped the pen until it cracked, and threw it into a corner of the room. No new writings appeared. Maybe John was waiting for a reply. Ivan knew he mustn’t reply. He tensed, trying to suppress his own desires, those stupid human impulses. It had gone too far, and he mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t. The mantra failed at the thought of moans. He wouldn’t mind hearing them himself.

He mustn’t!

And of course he liked John, who was so warm, cute and kind to him.

He mustn’t.

Ivan wanted to kiss him, yes. He’d embrace him tightly, touch his lips tenderly, hold him by the shoulders and never let go.

He mustn’t… But he craved it.

Ivan whimpered and banged his head against the headboard. Why had John brought up the topic? Why had he spoken such tempting words? Why had he stirred up something that had been slumbering? 

Ivan lay there for a couple of minutes, blankly staring at the ceiling, then switched off the night light and slid his hand under the blanket. To hell with principles and all the complicated issues. How could he deal with them while being aroused?

***

Hot drops fell on his hand and stomach. His breathing gradually steadied and the chaos in his head died down. The questions disappeared, too, and while the answers were few and hardly sound, Ivan liked them. He looked at the clock and realized he had a couple more hours to sleep. A couple more hours to come to terms with his lovesickness and muster up the courage to agree to a meeting. 


End file.
